


He should stop

by yulin



Series: Sekhmet [2]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Identity, M/M, Masturbation, Other, cressiweek2017, day-2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 08:35:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12250803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yulin/pseuds/yulin
Summary: Losing was not his habit.





	He should stop

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Ok, I know it's not really cressi. I mean, cressi happens in the future, as anyone who is reading the series knows.  
> But I wanted to indulge a little more on Leo's past. And seriously this was so perfect for identity, like trying to understand himself. I could exempt from posting it.

Leo was cold. 

Winter in Argentina was freezing and unfortunately the training facilities didn’t have good heating systems. That might just be another excuse for Leo to work out more, but Leo didn’t really need an excuse: he was always moving, always swinging his whips looking for the perfect control. But still, the temperature was the excuse he used to jog home under the grey, cloudy sky, despite the fatigue from training. Working out without the whips was boring, and usually Leo did it only if forced. But he didn’t want to risk a cold and being without his whips for a week, so it was better to keep warm and run, hopefully without breaking any bones by slipping on the icy pavement. When he was in front of his house he took off his gloves and huffed and puffed on his hands before putting his right palm on the digital print detector of the door.

“Mum! I’m home,” he declared, shutting the door behind him and leaving the horrible Argentinian winter with it.

“She’s not here. Mum and Dad took Matias to the doctor,” the voice of Rodrigo greeted him from the living room.

Suddenly Leo's mood took a turn for the worse. He first was disappointed because he was hoping to have his mum preparing him some warm tea. And then he felt guilty, because honestly Matias was the priority there.

It had happened some months ago. Matias had been training as he always did with his two short swords. He was great, as usual: he had always been the greatest in the family. He had everything: agility, vision, and a force that Leo could only dream of possessing. He had something else that Leo envied too: all of the battles for Matias were like a funny game. He had a contagious energy and positivity that that alone was enough to depress the adversaries and exalt the public and his companions of battles. He was marvellous and Leo had been ready to swear that his big brother was going to be the greatest warrior in the Universe. 

And then, on one afternoon at the end of last summer, after an entire day of training, Matias decided he wanted to have one last battle. It was late, he should have had enough, but fighting was never enough for Matias. Or so Leo thought. So Matias thought. But even if he wasn’t feeling the tiredness, his body was not acting at his best. There was a little mistake: Matias made a half turn with his body with maybe too much enthusiasm. He slipped, his adversary didn’t see it and couldn’t stop the assault, and Matias ended up being harmed.

His life had never been in danger, but the tendons of his right arm were completely cut. Since then, he wasn’t the same. Of course he was operated on, but it’s not that their family could afford the best available doctors. That, or maybe the injury was truly too deep. But it went how it went, and Matias was no longer able to handle his swords in the same way.

That threw the entire Messi family into despair. Rodrigo had already abandoned any wish of professionalism years ago. Leo was undoubtedly good. But Matias was better, everybody said that. More than that: everybody loved Matias the passionate warrior and were a bit puzzled by the glacial perfection that Leo was always putting in all his movements. Everybody was convinced that Matias was the one that could reach Sekhmet and assure stability for his family.

“There is still hope” they were saying. His mum, his dad, even Mathias. “Don’t worry, little brother,” he would say, lowering a hand to ruffle his hair. But Leo could catch from the tone of his voice that _he_ was, indeed, the one who is worried. And his mother, and father too. 

There might be still hope, but Leo couldn’t risk it. He knew that now the future of his family was on his shoulders, and he would act like that.

But still, he thought while shuffling his feet to the shower, the effort should earn him at least a warm cup of tea.

***

Rodrigo heard the disappointment in Leo’s voice and decided to change that. He went to the kitchen and began grabbing sugar, milk and vanilla beans. All that was necessary for a good, proper warm _dulche de leche_. He smiled to himself while slowly caramelised milk and sugar. He liked to cook. He particularly liked to revise traditional recipes, avoiding as much as possible things like pre-prepared ingredients, hence his special _dulche de leche_ for his little brother. Rodrigo wondered for a second whether to add some chillies in it, but eventually dismissed the idea. Leo had a sweet tooth.

Yes, Rodrigo liked to cook, and to eat. More than to fight, and his body shape was there to show his preferences to the world. Speaking of, his little brother should stay on a strict diet, but Rodrigo was sure that he could afford an exception sometimes.

“Oh, my God you are an angel!” Leo was at the kitchen doorstep, already in the loose grey jumpsuit that he usually would wear at home, with his damp hair and the look of someone that has just had a vision of the entire Heaven City. 

Rodrigo smiled, putting a warm mug on the peninsula table. “You seemed a bit down,” he said. “I hoped that this could help.”

He gained a soft smile from his little brother. “It always helps,” Leo replied as he climbed on a bar chair. The movement was stiff, though, and that didn’t go unnoticed by Rodrigo, along with the fact that the smile had been stretched into a grin. “I thought that they were leaving in two weeks.”

“The doctors called this morning saying that a slot had been free. They decided to take the opportunity,” Rodrigo explained, taking his seat in front of Leo. He was looking at him in a different way now. 

He looked deep in thought, his eyes lowered over the spiralling steam coming from the mug. There was nothing particularly singular about that: that meditative, almost inexpressive attitude was the typical facial expression of Leo, as if he was living in another world. A world made of the most precise, the smartest movements made with his body, and his whips that were yet an appendix of his own arms. Rodrigo knew him enough well to know that when he had this expression, it was that which Leo was thinking about. 

Leo had the same exact expression both at rest and when he was fighting. In that, he looked so different from Matias or Rodrigo himself, when he had been fighting long ago. Rodrigo could remember very well the mixture of feelings that he was he'd had while fighting. Fear, rage, bliss. He felt so many things at once, and so much: Rodrigo thought that he could have never felt so much, passions burning his own brain. Surely all those emotions were showing clearly on his face.

But Leo was very different. Even when he was fighting it was clear that he was still completely closed in himself. He looked almost… unbothered. Some people were complaining about his lack of passion, as if he didn’t care about his fights. The reality was that Leo wanted to win his battles more than anything else. But he wasn’t fighting against his opponent: he was fighting his internal battle against himself, to improve himself, to reach every day a new level of skill, always up, yet above the others of his age, and even that of many older warriors than him. 

Up to the levels of gods, someone was starting to murmur.

But Rodrigo was not so impressed. Leo was his little brother: he had seen him coming into the world, seen him struggling to crawl and peeing on the bed. He wasn’t buying any worshipping shit. Above all, he wasn’t confused by his stone face, and could recognise when Leo’s posture was a little too rigid, and when he was being particularly careful so that some parts of his body were not being accidentally touched. 

“How was your training?” he asked, in a casual tone.

“Just the usual,” Leo shrugged, clearly immediately regretting the movement. His attempt of hiding it by sipping his _dulche de leche_ was useless with Rodrigo. 

“I don’t really think so,” Rodrigo said, with a more serious tone, dropping his mug on the table. He climbed down the chair and went on the other side of the table, facing his brother, who unconsciously moved backwards. “Let me see it,” he demanded.

“See what?” Leo protested, a childish pout on his lips. Well, he was a child, only twelve years old, and had all the right to pout. But not to lie.

“Leo,” Rodrigo just said. But the tone was the right one, the one that he had learnt from his father and that could manage to convey only in one word, in your name: “You better tell me what I want to hear or you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life.”

It worked. Leo’s cheeks got pinkish and Rodrigo knew that he had won. “I just stumbled and lost control of my whip,” Leo admitted, trying to shift away. “It’s just a scratch.”

“Let me see it,” Rodrigo repeated, and this time he didn’t wait for Leo to move. He grabbed him on his shoulder and lifted his hoodie on the left side, where Rodrigo noticed that Leo was avoiding contact.

It was a strip of an angry red, standing out from Leo's fair skin. It was clearly inflamed, but not infected. Not yet, at least. “Let me grab some disinfectant,” he said. And the voice had lost all the authority, acquiring a sad, resigned tone.

It was a short trip to the bathroom and back to his brother, who was now sitting longsuffering at the idea that he was having some care. He didn’t shift when the hoodie was lifted again, and startled only a little when Rodrigo silently applied the ointment.

There were few seconds of dense silence before Leo spoke.

“It’s not your fault, Ro,” he said.

“I know.”

“You can’t feel guilty for any wound that I get.”

“I know.”

“And you know, that even if you hadn't decided to quit fighting, even if Mat hadn’t injured himself, I still would have liked to fight, right?”

That wasn’t convincing for Rodrigo. It was true that Leo would have probably fought in any case. And he was damn good at it too, so he would still have had been pressured to go on to be a professional. But he wouldn’t have the pressure of the family, of being the only one that could help them improve their lives. 

“Yes,” Rodrigo sighed, “but…”

A knock at a door startled both the boys.

“Should be Mari,” Rodrigo said, mood lifting. Leo’s face immediately brightened too. He pre-empted Rodrigo, moving to the door, acting as he wasn’t in pain.

Rodrigo heard his brother talking briefly to the neighbour that had picked up Mari at the nursery together with her daughter, and then the whines of Mari at the news that their parents were not at home. Another mug of warm _dulche de leche_ was prepared.

Eventually, it wasn’t necessary. When Maria Sol entered in the kitchen, there was already a bright smile over her face despite being congested from her previous tears. Mari tended to cry quite easily, but the good thing was that she could equally be easily distracted and brought back to a cheerful mood.

The smile only brightened when she saw the mug on the table.

“Leo promised me that he would train with me,” she informed Rodrigo, while she was more or less attempting to climb the chair. Leo was already there helping, pushing her up. 

“He’s tired, Mari.”

“Don’t worry, I am alright,” Leo quietly said, still hugging Mari from behind. Rodrigo tried to give him a look, but the attempt was completely ignored by Leo.

It wasn’t caught by Mari, either, who was now jumping down from the chair, almost unbalancing Leo. “Look, I want to show you what I learnt,” she said, and she ran to her bedroom, the mug of warm _dulche de leche_ completely forgotten. As said, she was very easily distracted.

When she was back she had in her hands two long red ribbons. They were her personal imitation of Leo’s whips, that she adored. It wasn’t that she was particularly interested in fighting. She was the most cheerful girl and she couldn’t even imagine hurting someone, even for sport. But she loved the way Leo fought, dancing with his whips, and she decided that she wanted to follow his steps in that.

Stubborn as she was, she managed to convince Mum and Dad to let her play with two long ribbons, and now she was showing Leo how good she was in spinning without entangling the ribbons.

Although for her it wouldn't ever be anything else but a game, Leo was taking her very seriously, as always, and was helping her adjust her posture. He was even showing her some new moves for her to memorize, despite the wound that was surely creating some pain.

That was the other anomaly of Leo. He was a kind soul. He was fantastic with children and, in turn, children adored him. Rodrigo had never seen a fighter like him. Especially at Leo’s age, aspiring fighters tended to show bravado and never ever show themselves together with younger kids. They strove to show that they were not children anymore, to demonstrate that they had what it takes to belong to the adults’ world, to the “real” fighters. 

Matias and Rodrigo himself hadn’t been an exception in that, and he remember too well the way in which he had used to treat Leo, when they had been younger. But Leo was different. He didn’t care. He was fighting when he had to, but he also liked the company of Mari and he wasn’t doing anything to hide it.

Maybe _that_ was the spirit of a real fighter. A quiet assertiveness that didn’t need to show off. But looking at him playing with his little sister, it was hard for Rodrigo to see a fighter in a deadly competition.

***

The only good thing about their parents being away with Matias was that each of the remaining brothers had a room for themselves, as Rod decided to be more comfortable and sleep in their parents’ room. This should have helped Leo to sleep better, but, in reality, he felt restless. It should have been the pain from the wound. In fact, that pain was the reason why he was forced to lay prone on his belly, and couldn’t roll in his covers even if he felt like he needed to move. He spread his legs, rubbing his body on the mattress as he tried to get comfortable.

He couldn’t complain in any case. If he was hurt it was his own fault. He was the one misusing the whip while he was making a turn, and it was a movement that he had already tried many times. So, he had made a stupid mistake, and he deserved whatever pain he was feeling.  
And in any case it was not even an unbearable pain. It was dull and constant, something that he could get used to. From the wound Leo could feel a sort of warmth spreading to his back, in particular to the lower part of his back, where he was more sensitive. A shiver ran through his spine, and Leo shuffled again, hiding his head in his crossed arms.

It was like something was creating a pressure there. Something or someone that was blocking him on the bed. Leo could almost feel him, feeling the strong will that was keeping him in place. Despite his pyjamas, and the double layer of wool covers, suddenly Leo felt exposed, as if his back was on display for the whole world.

Leo choked back a moan, and his eyes opened wide in alarm: he couldn’t figure out where _that_ was coming from. And it was wrong on so many levels. He should immediately stop, whatever it was that was causing it.

But his body couldn’t obey him: he was getting hard. Worse than that, his mind wasn’t obeying him. He tried to tell himself to stay quiet and still, but at a certain point-Leo couldn’t tell when- it happened that the voice in his head changed their sound and tone. 

There was now a stranger's voice, commanding him: be a good boy, stay still. Nevertheless, Leo couldn’t obey it. The pressure he was feeling was too much, and he needed, he really needed to move, at least a little bit. He tentatively pushed against the mattress, drawing little circles with his hips. 

That was only making it worse. He was harder, and the feeling was spreading like a lava in his body. Like the pain. In fact, Leo couldn’t distinguish the two at that point.

He should stop.

He should really stop. 

His hands clamped down on his own forearms, forcing himself to do nothing with them. But then again, he couldn’t stop his mind or the imaginary hands that were holding his wrists and pushing him down. And Leo pushed harder in response, moaning again at the harsh feeling of his boxers’ fabric sliding on his most sensitive parts.

He didn’t need that, what he wanted was more pressure. He wanted it all over him, and he pushed down harder, spreading his legs, opening up himself.

This was so wrong. 

He shouldn’t like this, everything that he was imagining, everything he was doing was so wrong. But the more he was chastening himself the more his body was betraying him. 

Another moan escaped from his throat, and Leo bit his arms to muffle it. An image flashed in his mind. A naked, tied up woman in a dark, dusty room, surrounded by men. She was screaming, but eventually was being silenced by one of the men, who forced himself into her mouth. Without meaning to, Leo started sucking his own skin, feeling the bitter taste of the salty sweat, swirling his tongue. A little stream of saliva dripped over his arm.

All of a sudden, Leo froze, realising what he was doing. He rolled on his back, unconcerned about his wound. He should really stop it now.

He felt hot that he was panting in sweat, and he needed to throw away his covers. The fresh air was good: it was almost like a caress over his sensitive skin. And as a reaction to a caress, Leo’s nipples hardened to the point of being painful. Leo shuffled at that, feeling again exposed. He blocked his arms over his head, and couldn’t stop moving again. But the thrusts against the air were so less satisfying, and Leo could almost feel tears of frustration stinging the corner of his eyes.

“Please,” he found himself praying. “Please, stop it. I need it to finish. I… ah!” He would say that to the men in front of him, watching him. He would say that to the man holding him down on the bed.

He needed to do something. He couldn’t stay like that any longer.

Leo bit his lower lip and mentally apologised to his family, his friends, his trainers. Hell, the entire planet! Everybody was looking at him as the perfect warrior, and there he was, giving into the filthiest temptation, as he reached down and touched himself. 

He swore to himself that he wanted just to touch. 

Just one touch, just to know how it felt.

It felt good… so damn good. 

The pain was disappearing in the sensations that were devouring him. He felt so guilty, but he couldn’t stop caressing himself. Except, it was somehow making him feeling better, if he thought that it wasn’t him who was the one that was touching. Thinking that it was the hand of another, exploring his body with curiosity, wickedly smiling at Leo’s unwanted reactions at his touches made it all so much better.

It was easy for Leo then, keeping an arm above his head, imagining what it was like to be pinned on the bed. His other hand was wandering over his body with deliberate, perverse slowness. He ran over the length of his cock, and then left it throbbing, moving over his swollen balls. He curved his palm as a shell over them, letting his fingers having access to that zone behind. That little spot that made Leo almost scream when he practiced a little pressure.

He was now feeling a different kind of pleasure, starting from inside his gut, spreading like a tide. He wanted more. He needed more, or –he knew- he would get crazy. Leo didn’t even know where the idea came from, but he moved his hand further, trying to have access to that point from the only place he could think of.

It was a weird feeling at the beginning, an extraneous thing within him. But he knew he was right: he could feel that that was the way. The more he was moving his finger, the more he could feel that ball of pleasure inside his body expanding.

His mind was getting crazy at the same time. He needed to think that it was someone else to do that, that someone was penetrating him and he didn’t even dare to imagine with what. That someone was laughing evilly at the way in which Leo was completely at his mercy, his body moving helplessly, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth wide open in a silent plea.

“Please! Please! Please!” Leo was still silently shouting a mantra, all in his head. He wanted to stop, he wanted more, he wanted…

It was like a bright light, at the back of his eyes, and Leo’s body was vibrating with pleasure, uncontrolled, until Leo found himself panting on his bed, covered with sweat that was already starting to cool, making him cold. Worse than that: he was… he had dripped… Leo reached for a tissue on his night table, to try to clean the mess that he had made with his body. 

He threw the filthy thing to the opposite part of the room, using all his strength. All his frustration. Because, seriously, what the hell. He felt destroyed, defeated, something that he had never felt before. Losing was not his habit. But apparently, as he was so damn good in never losing to the others, as he was a disaster in controlling himself.

Leo covered himself in the covers, like a cocoon. He just felt so guilty. And his body, his damn, betraying body felt so better now, so relaxed. He couldn’t cope with that. It was so wrong. _He_ was so wrong.

“Please,” he repeated again. But this time, he knew what he wanted to ask. “Please, help me,” he murmured to himself. To his fantasies. To no one. No one was there to see the god of warriors hiding his tears below the pillow.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much to Kathleen for her help. As always. You are wonderful.


End file.
